


A Staccato of Noise

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Depression, Drug Use, F/M, Heroin, Implied Torture, M/M, Night Terrors, Opiates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, this is a story I've already posted, but frankly, it was horribly written. Consider this the remastered version.</p>
<p>           Sherlock's back, but he's not the same man. After all he's been through, something had to give. There was no way he'd remain in one piece. Something had to break.</p>
<p>           "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.<br/>I love thee as the envelope loves the letter-opener.<br/>As the lake loves the drought.<br/>As the heart loves the knife.<br/>I love thee as the moon loves the day<br/>and the sun the night.<br/>I adore thee as the salt loves the water and the blood loves the shark."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Evil Delusion

**Author's Note:**

> “Yet I pity the poor wretch, though he's my enemy. He's yoked to an evil delusion, but the same fate could be mine. I see clearly: we who live are all phantoms, fleeing shadows.”  
> ~Sophocles~

_It's a part of him now. It marks him. You look at him and you'll see._

_It's visible._

_It sews him together, skin stretching towards itself in an attempt to become whole again._

_It mars him._

_There's no hiding it now._

_There are matching patterns on the flip side, like frayed ropes tainting smooth perfection. He can't hide them now. They show, not only on the outside but on the inside as well._

_No... No, that just won't do, will it?_

_They look up to him, he can't be damaged. Not like this._

_Damage is inevitable in his line of work - always has been._

_His thoughts are a staccato of noise. Senseless noise. No sense can be made of it._

_They are disconnected._

_They're disconnected_

_in so many ways._

 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee as the envelope loves the letter-opener.

As the lake loves the drought.

As the heart loves the knife.

I love thee as the moon loves the day

and the sun the night.

I adore thee as the salt loves the water and the blood loves the shark.

I love thee...

I love you.

I am madly, abhorrently in love with you.

And you'd have every reason to cut me out. Completely. I'd understand.

But you see... I can see.

I see the shift in your perception of me. You once said I was your best friend.

Is that still true?

The outcome, no matter the matter, is inevitable.

Because the shift was subtle. But it was there. I shifted too, John.

My center of gravity is off-kilter. I've lost my balance and I am forever falling... falling.

Falling.

I'm falling in love with you.

Or I've fallen in love with you. I'm still not sure yet.

It's not that I'm unsure of you. I can promise you that. But I am unsure of myself.

I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from _feelings_. But you see?

My heart's betraying me.

Interesting, yes?

It's always been you, John Watson.

I've been kicked off-kilter. You've kept me upright.

I fear... Fear for what might have happened if it weren't for you.

 

_The air is a whirlwind around him. The feeling blankets him, surrounds him._

_Then the Enchantress arrives._

_She charms the shining knight and rides off into the sunset with him._

_He is left behind. The knight has forgotten him._

 

No, he would never do that.

 

_He's moved on, my dear... She took him._

_And you **let** **her**_ _._

_She came in, all smiles and deception, and you let him get taken._

 

I di - It was never my intention to - But she left him.

 

_"She left him?" **No. You left him! **_

_Is pity what you seek, dearest? Because you will **not** find it here.  
_

 

I never deliberately seek pity.

 

_"Deliberate" being the key word._


	2. Devolving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past should remain in the past, but timelines don't always listen to little humans. He isn't - wasn't human. Maybe he is now. He's still trying to figure it out.

There are fissures tattooed into his skin. They run across him, splitting him. He can feel them stretch and flex with each inhale of air. And just like a tattoo, they are permanent.

He can feel them even now, in the comfort of 221B. His fingers tap against his keyboard relentlessly as he tries to read the e-mail in front of him. The words seem to float around, never quite stilling long enough for him to make odds and ends of them. Still, his eyes remain trained on the glowing screen in front of him.

"Come on," Sherlock mutters to himself, thumb and forefinger pushing harshly against his eyelids. " _Pay attention._ " When he opens his eyes again, the words still make no sense. Aggravated, Sherlock slams his laptop shut. He stands in one noisy, fluid motion and his chair goes sailing backwards before thudding onto its back. The legs point at him and he ignores the piece of furniture. His body sags and he rests his hands on the table a moment. His heart beats rapidly in his chest and it feels like choking. Oxygen enters his body in a loud _w_ _hoosh_ and it takes him a second to realize he'd been holding his breath.

How long had that been going on for?

Sherlock straightens out again and moves to stand by the front window. His violin rests there with the bow dutifully propped up beside it. He slowly reaches down and picks both up, moving his violin to the ready. His bow hovers over the strings, like a stuttering breath.

And then they sing. His fingers are fluid and the song is, too. It pours out of him to the point where it's hard to keep up. He can see the melody circling in the air around him, the notes hovering over his shoulders. He'll have to clean it up later. Or maybe Mrs. Hudson will do it. The thought is banished into the recesses of Sherlock's mind for a moment, and he focuses on the rhythmic motions of his instrument.

The noise - _this noise_ \- is calming. His vitals remain regulated and his focus remains steady. There are no inundated boats on choppy waters. The allegretto music steadies him as he sways in front of the window, letting the sound become all.

_BANG!_

The song screeches to an end as the bow falls from his hands at the loud noise, clattering to the hardwood floor with his violent flinch.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellows, his mood immediately soured and he reaches down to pick his bow up again.

"Sorry, dearie," the old woman calls up the stairs. "Didn't mean to slam the door like that." Her footsteps patter up the stairs and Sherlock goes back to work on his violin, playing Brahms' Violin Concerto in D major. When she enters the living room, Sherlock can see her little smile.

"Yes, what do you want?" he asks, not pausing his playing as he speaks.

"Just wanted to see if you needed anything. Tea?" she offers, rubbing her hands on her dress. Sherlock glances at her again, looking at her from head to toe. Cooking - stew most likely. Just finished cleaning her kitch - no, bathroom. The scent of Dettol burns more like Don Q than Van Ryn's. He turns away from the woman, not bothering to answer and knowing she'd fix him a cuppa anyway.

Her footsteps move and he hears the clinking of mugs and the sound of the kettle being switched on. Sighing, he subtly switches the melody to Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 5 in A. Two minutes into the piece and Mrs. Hudson is setting his mug on the table beside him. He nods in acknowledgement, but continues the song. He _needs_ to finish it. He chuckles at the thought. It's all a bit... full-circle? By the time he finishes, his tea has gone cold and Mrs. Hudson has retreated back to her flat. Alone again.

Alone...

* * *

Three weeks.

Three weeks without John Watson. And everything is...

"FUBAR."

"Sorry?" Mrs. Hudson asks, still sweeping the floor.

"A term coined by American soldiers and Marines during WWII," Sherlock clarifies, standing in front of his Board of Evidence (coined by John Watson). "Stands for-"

"Yes, I know what it stands for," his landlady interrupts, flapping her hand about. "I'm asking why you're using it."

"It's the message Colonel Jones Macon drew onto the wall with his own blood before promptly keeling over and dying. He was found lying naked in the foetal position, see?" he says, directing her eyes to the board. Mrs. Hudson looks up instinctively before quickly covering her eyes and turning away.

"Sherlock!" she rebukes, letting her hand drop after a moment.

"What?"

"Should you really have that photo up?" she asks, turning to look him in the eye after she props her broom against the wall. "What if company comes?"

"When do _I_ ever have company? _Me?_ "

She remains quiet.

"What happened to John?" she asks softly after a moment.

"Mary," he answers before he can think of something more eloquent to say. Before she can reply again, he's grabbing his coat and running. Out of the flat.

Out of Baker Street.

* * *

_It's always lonely at the bottom._

_There's no-one to play with._

_Well, except me. But you don't like me._

 

Well, I don't make it a habit to befriend psychopaths.

 

_No... you don't. But you don't make a habit of befriending at all_

_do you, Sherlock?_

 

I have John.

 

_You **had** John. There's a difference._

_He has Mary now._

_I wonder how far she'd go to protect him,_

_don't you?_

 

Stop it, stop that.

 

_She might even go further than you..._

_Or maybe not._

_Maybe she's let me have him. Let me toy with him._

_I take good care of my toys, Sherlock._

 

Is that what you told Carl Powers?

 

 _Carl Powers wasn't merely a toy, darling. He was an example_ _._

_Now, no-one can underestimate me._

_I am above you in every conceivable fashion._

_He just learnt that the hard way._

* * *

Austere, phantasmagorical, sepulchral, acrimonious.

Marked by the man and maker of cynicism. But there's no rain. His representative was a rude man. Who would do that?

Maybe that's why he likes him.

The golden plaque glares at him, the black letters as unemotional as ever. The white building mocks him, shining brightly in the bleary sun. He twists the knob and walks in to greet the room of silence. It's filled with old men.

One of them looks up from their newspaper before performing a double-take. His expression sours and he folds the newspaper in half with a roll of his eyes before standing and motioning for the Reasoner to follow.

"This is getting childish, Sherlock," he chastises in a harsh whisper, leading him to the Stranger's Room.

"I never liked that name," is the reply given as cerulean eyes read the cursive sign.

"You seem to be devolving, Brother Mine."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

The rude government official unlocks the door and makes a wide gesture for his little brother to enter. Sherlock does so with a flamboyant flourish of his coat. Mycroft follows and motions for the detective to take a seat as he himself leans against his desk.

"I'd prefer to stand, if you don't mind," Sherlock mutters, clasping his hands behind his back. Mycroft shrugs, not bothered by his little brother's tics.

 "You would not come here if you didn't need something. What is it?" Mycroft questions, thin eyebrow raised.

"I don't _need_ anything."

"Oh? Then what brings you to this humble abode?"

"I..." Sherlock begins, trailing off. "I don't know."

"Could it be that the so-called high-functioning sociopath needs his big brother for emotional support?" Mycroft says in a way that's cryptic and taunting at once. Sherlock sneers, turning to face away from his brother to hide the expression.

"I should have known you wouldn't take this seriously," he snaps, glancing over to glare at the slightly over-weight man.

"Take what seriously?" he asks with a sarcastically helpless gesture. "You've given me nothing to go on."

 Sherlock wars with himself. Speak, tell, listen, ideal. Bury, body, helpless, fake. Too many choices. How can he be expected to choose when there are so many?

Spring, wire, tension, contour. Tightly wound, wound.

Wound, tear, flesh, hydrogen. Hand and hand they go...

"I don't know what's wrong with me." His hands shake and his heart is erraticunstabletightlywound. Mycroft sighs and shrugs.

"What do you want me to do about it?" At the look of incredulity he's sent, the official rolls his eyes. He seems to be doing a lot of that these days. "You've just come back from the dead, dear brother. There were bound to be repercussions."

"This is going beyond repercussions, _Mycroft_ ," Sherlock replies, twisting his sibling's name into something foul. "This is out of my depth. _I'm_ out of my depth..."

 "Then I am as well."

* * *

_One of his hands is shoved deep into his front pocket while the other pinches a cigarette. His blonde friend plucks it from his fingers and sticks it between his own teeth._

_"You know, you could just ask," Sherlock mutters, shoving his newly freed hand into his other pocket._

_"Why? You'd just say no anyway," comes his reply._

_"I often wonder why I'm still friends with you."_

_"Because you loooove me." Sherlock glares and his bouncy companion shrugs with a smirk. "Maybe because Sebastian and his friends are dickheads and I actually find you to be great company. Plus, free fags. Of **all**_   _sorts," he revises._

_"Victor, for once in your life please refrain from making your inappropriate jokes out loud. At least until we're out of Professor Hotchman's range of hearing," Sherlock requests, eyes focused straight ahead as the pair make their way to their dorm._

_"Sorry, mate. Didn't mean to startle you," Victor jests, and Sherlock snatches the light from his friend and takes a long drag._

_The future consulting detective views his surroundings with a frown._

_"What am I doing here?" he asks under his breath, turning around to try and get his bearings. He looks to his side, where Victor was. The man standing there grins._

_"Hello, Sherly. It's been far too loooong!" the man chirps with an iniquitously wide smirk. Sherlock jumps back just in time to be encircled by tongues of flame. Trapped in the circle with him is the man in the suit. The man's sleeve catches on fire and he begins batting at it with no sense of urgency._

_"What are you doing here? What do you want?" Sherlock demands, an edge of panic in his voice. His university has been replaced by something dark and soulless. His fists clench in an attempt to hide their trembling.  
_

_"You. 'Round and 'round we go. When we stop, nobody knows..."_ _The flames on his sleeve finally go out, leaving a black singe along the fabric. "Westwood. This was my favorite," he murmurs morosely._

_"Why?" Sherlock snaps, glaring daggers at the criminal._

_"Well, I think the colour really suited my skin tone and accentuated my-"_

_"Not the suit. Why are you **here**?"_

_"Oh. You really oughta be more specific, Sherly. No one likes having to guess. As for you're question, you're just so **fun**_ _to be around." Moriarty squeals. "I love playing with you. You play a fun game, my dear."  
_

_The fire rises_ _up_ _into a wall of burning flames. It scorches Sherlock's face and sweat beads up over his eyebrows. He stumbles back from the fire, only to land in the sizzling heat behind him. The criminal mastermind appears in front of him suddenly, like he'd just popped out of existence only to reappear inches away. The man bends down, a sultry smile on his face as he offers his hand. Slowly, Sherlock raises his own until James' hand encases his. The mastermind pulls up his nemesis, the unsettling grin still in place. He does not release the detective's hand, and his grin grows unnaturally wider still. His hand shakes Sherlock's with firm pressure before he leans in, his lips ghosting over the flesh of the genius' ear._

_" **Welcome to Hell**."_

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is a story I've already posted, but frankly, it was horribly written. Consider this the remastered version.


End file.
